


Under a Strange Red Moon

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Coping with the war, First War with Voldemort, Friendship, M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4395545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A breathy, high-pitched moan, and what is happening, it’s 8 a.m. in their kitchen, Remus is making toast, this is only meant to happen when it’s the middle of the night and they’ve just got back from patching up Muggles or putting out magically-set house fires or battling with a Death Eater who failed to Disapparate quickly enough from the scene of the crime, they’re meant to be frantic and desperate and—Sirius shoves down his panic and surges up to bite Remus’ lips, suck his tongue down his throat, and when are they not desperate and frightened these days?</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The war is shattering their world into a million pieces, and Sirius and Remus try to hold themselves together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under a Strange Red Moon

Sirius awakens between scratchy sheets, his face mashed against a drool-dampened pillow, and swears under his breath.

He’s naked except for his boxers, which are a sticky mess; so is Remus Lupin (naked, and a sticky mess, that is), who’s lying beside him, still asleep, thank Merlin. Whatever this _thing_ is they’ve been doing doesn’t need to be complicated by accidentally waking up in bed together. Sirius looks over at Remus, gauging the depth of his sleep. His friend is snoring lightly, curled up like a child, back arched defensively against his dreams or his life, take your pick. Sirius experiences a definite twist of unease as he watches him; he feels like an intruder in Remus’ bed at the best of times and he certainly shouldn’t be here now, with morning light easing across the rumpled bedspread and illuminating his friend’s all-too-thin frame. As it so often does with Sirius, uncertainty turns quickly to irritation and he pushes himself abruptly to his feet, gathering his dropped clothes as silently as he can before slipping out the door.

Safely shut in the bathroom, Sirius grimaces as he unsticks himself from his boxers, feeling a surge of annoyance that he can’t quite pretend isn’t guilt in disguise. Remus’ face flits through his mind; he looks so much younger than his twenty years when he’s asleep, more like the tiny, patched-clothes schoolboy Sirius remembers well. He climbs into their manky shower and turns on the tap, hoping the cold water will shock the maudlin morning-after thoughts out of his mind. Instead, he starts shivering. Cursing, he fumbles for the soap and it slips right out of his hands; he reaches down to pick it up and to turn the tap to hot at the same time and ends up sitting down hard on his arse, water streaming into his eyes. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says creatively, and the knot of unease twists his stomach tighter. If he’d just managed to make it across the hall to his own bedroom when they’d finished last night, instead of giving in to exhaustion after their quick, desperate grope—then everything would have been fine. Neat and compartmentalized, unspoken and unacknowledged, just as it has been since these infrequent occurrences began half a year ago. Moony just looks so _small_ in the early morning light, so fragile, and Sirius has always been clumsy. He barrels through life like a hippogriff in a cauldron shop; he can’t be trusted with breakables. He doesn’t mean to hurt people, and yet somehow they end up in pieces anyway.

He never does manage to get the water to run hot; he just grits his teeth and skips the shampoo. There’s still silence from Remus’ room when he’s out, which may or may not be what spurs Sirius to dress faster than usual and shove an untoasted slice of bread into his mouth before he ducks into their cramped fireplace and tosses a pinch of Floo Powder at his feet. He arrives at the Order’s safehouse of the week thirteen minutes early, nearly giving poor nervous Frank Longbottom a heart attack. Sirius is never early for anything.

 

 

 

“It happened again,” Sirius says to James in an undertone, the first chance he gets.

“What did?” James asks, concentrating on building up his waterspout. “Bundimun infestation in the drains? Blech.”

“What? No. We took care of that a month ago. No, James,” Sirius says, lowering his voice even further and leaning in, “I slept with Remus again last night.”

“Oh,” James says, startled; his waterspout veers off course, threatening to merge with Benjy Fenwick’s. Fabian Prewett, who’s leading this morning’s training session, hurries over to help. Sirius waits impatiently while James gets his magic under control. 

“That makes three times in the past two months, doesn’t it?” James asks. 

Sirius fidgets. “Five, actually,” he admits—that time after cleaning up from the explosion on that Muggle bus hardly counts as a sixth, surely, since they barely took off any clothes and it all lasted less than five minutes.

James’ eyebrows shoot up. “But it’s still just—letting off steam, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, training his eyes on his own chaotic waterspout, which looks unlikely to do more than give a refreshing shower to any Death Eater he might try and use it on. “Yeah, of course.”

“No harm in that.”

“No.” Sirius flicks his wand impatiently, earning a killer glare from a now soggy Marlene MacKinnon. “Only—I don’t know. I’m worried I’m hurting him, somehow.”

James’ tongue is sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he moves his wand in small, tight circles. “But he’s on the same page as you, isn’t he? I mean, he knows nothing else can happen—”

“No, of course—”

“He knows it’s just—this crazy situation, curfew, bars closing down, nowhere to go—and all the horrible news all the time, and here we all are preparing to run straight towards danger—”

“Yeah.”

“I mean Merlin knows Lily and I are caught up in it all,” James says, suddenly earnest. “We’d never have eloped otherwise, I don’t think she’d have even considered marrying me for another five _years_ —I mean, I’m definitely not complaining, but—”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, prodding his wand more forcefully at his waterspout, “yeah, true, it’s just—that’s you and Lily, I mean, you’ve been in love with her since we were third-years.”

“I know. Still, Sirius, it—you didn’t worry like this when you and I—at school, those couple of times—did you?” 

Sirius certainly does _not_ flush, not even a little. Memories of two or three half-drunken nights after Quidditch-related revelries, when James was too hung up on the still-aloof Lily to have eyes for any of his many admirers and none of the girls were falling for Sirius’ increasingly tipsy innuendos, flash through Sirius’ mind: messy, laughing gropes that left them both feeling sated and, in the morning, nothing worse than a little sheepish and a lot hungover. They’d grinned, whacked each other around the head a few times for good measure, and moved on.

“That was different, though,” he insists.

“Why?”

“Because neither of us is gay.”

James is silent for a moment, siphoning the water from his waterspout back into his wand. Then he turns to Sirius, eyes widening.

“Are you worried Moony is in love with you?”

Sirius nearly starts a tidal wave. “What? No!” Hastily, he puts his waterspout to rest. “No. Remus knows I—that I’m not—I just, he’s so fucking _skinny_ , James.”

James looks utterly bemused. “Skinny?”

Sirius runs frustrated hands through his messy mop of hair. “Breakable. I don’t know. And I don’t know what he’s been up to with McGonagall—”

“Yeah, Lily won’t tell me either.”

“—but something’s messing with his head, he’s even broodier than usual, and I swear the moon’s affecting him worse than ever—what he really needs is a midnight trip to the Hogwarts kitchens for some absurd triple-chocolate monstrosity, I miss the days when that was all it took to cheer him up—”

“Me too. We all do.”

“I know.” Sirius sighs. “I just feel like I’m—like I’m using him somehow, Prongs.” 

James looks at him, brow creased, and it’s one of those moments—James tries to understand, he really does, but for all his reputation for good looks and flirtatiousness he is at heart an absolutely one-woman man. He doesn’t really understand complicated feelings about sex and relationships; either you’re in love with someone or you’re not, either the sex is an expression of deepest intimacy or it’s a fun, meaningless diversion. Sirius doesn’t like men, so whatever he’s doing with Remus is just an overflow of his cooped-up energy or an adrenaline-fueled response to danger; Remus is either tragically in love with Sirius, in which case the sex is definitely painful, or he’s not, in which case it can’t possibly hurt him. Sirius isn’t all that great with nuance either—honestly, he’s always used Remus as his moral compass before—but he’s got a nagging feeling that this time it’s not that simple. 

“Well, maybe you should stop sleeping with him, then,” James says, turning to look at Fabian Prewett, who’s just called for everyone to watch him demonstrate the next charm. “Sorry, mate, I think we should focus on this. Talk more later, yeah?”

Sirius nods. James is right—the stakes are too high for them to let this distract them, to let any of this distract them, people are dying and they’re probably going to start dying much more often very soon—but Sirius can’t help but worry. Just because they all might go up in a flash of green light any day now doesn’t mean he should play fast and loose with his friend’s feelings. If that’s what he’s doing. If it’s not all just in his head.

 

 

 

The next morning, Sirius tries to sleep in. He’s got nowhere he has to be; some of the Order have been pressing for daily meetings and training sessions no matter what, but Dumbledore insists that they should rest when they still can. But Sirius is having a hard time relaxing. He and Remus have barely spoken for the past twenty-four hours, and Sirius is itching to know if that’s because they’re both busy and exhausted or if something’s gone sour between them. With an annoyed huff, he drags himself out of bed.

Remus is in their cramped kitchen, brewing coffee and toasting some of his whole-wheat bread—when does _he_ get to rest, Sirius wonders darkly, this thing he and Lily and Peter have been doing with McGonagall has been going on for weeks now—and Sirius stands in the doorway, watching. Remus performs his breakfast routine with characteristic restraint: making quiet, measured movements from fridge to sink to stove, scraping off the excess coffee grounds from the top of the scoop with a knife, slicing off the tiniest sliver of butter from the stick. Even his usual bedhead has been tamed already, his pyjamas replaced with shabby tweed. And maybe Sirius’ eyes are playing tricks on him, but Remus seems to be moving slower than usual, keeping his eyes trained more firmly downwards.

Sirius sometimes wonders what life would have been like if things had gone according to plan, if war and love had not intervened and he and James had gotten a flat together like they’d always talked about. He imagines messy, loud mornings, James’ daily mass of eggs and sausage sizzling away on the stove, tea and milk dripping across the floor as they run to and fro from the bathroom, forcing combs through their hair and pulling on socks as they try not to be late. Sirius blasting his Muggle music and James sabotaging his radio, Quidditch posters and broomsticks and old robes cluttering the sitting room. Peter, of course, would have been stuck living with his overprotective parents just the same, but Remus would probably have ended up in a rickety old flat by himself, some slanted attic room at the top of a house, filled with books and dusted daily.

Would that have been better for all of them? Sirius wonders. He and Remus were never the best match on their own; they always needed James, with his breezy, confident manner, to bridge the gap between Sirius’ loud recklessness and Remus’ careful, reserved nature. And if he and Remus weren’t sharing a flat, they certainly wouldn’t be doing…whatever it is they’re doing.

“We should have a talk,” he blurts out.

Remus turns around, spatula in his hand, eyebrow raised. “Good morning to you, too, Sirius. What do you mean, we should have a talk?” 

Sirius sets his jaw. “You know. A talk. About…things. And our feelings about…those things.”

The involuntary twitch of amusement that twists Remus’ lips upwards accentuates just how bleak his face was before. “A talk about our _feelings_? Has someone put you up to this? Are you under the Imperius Curse? Quick, what did you write on the wall of the fourth-floor boys’ bathroom our second year?”

“‘Severus Snape is a slimy toad,’” Sirius answers, fighting between laughter and exasperation. “No one put me up to it. I mean it, Remus.”

Remus’ smile dims, a hint of wariness hooding his eyes. But he answers gamely, “All right then, I’m not due to leave for another twenty minutes, pour your heart out. Problems with James?” 

Sirius shakes his head. “I…” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the limp ends. “It’s…” Of course he hasn’t got any words, now, how the hell does he start talking about this? Something careful, of course, diplomatic, gentle—

“I think we should stop having sex,” he says in a rush.

Remus’ eyelids flutter rapidly for a moment, and then he turns away, back to the stove. 

“Okay,” he says evenly.

Sirius’ mind goes blank. “Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

Sirius watches Remus’ back as he moves to pick up the kettle, then to pour the steaming water into the coffeemaker. Remus swirls the grounds with a knife and then sets it aside to steep.

“That’s it? Okay?” Sirius asks, his voice coming out unexpectedly defensive. “Don’t you even want to know why?”

“Not particularly,” Remus answers, still in that flat, mild tone, still with his back to Sirius. 

A surge of annoyance courses through Sirius. “It’s because you should be with someone _real_ , Remus, someone who cares about you in—in that way, you know, you should _have_ someone.”

“Well, I don’t,” Remus says sharply, turning around to face Sirius with a forbidding look on his pale face. “But that’s not because of you.”

Sirius flushes, his ears growing hot. “I only meant—I shouldn’t—it’s not the right kind of, you should be having a better, I mean—” 

“You’re not stopping me from having sex with other people, Sirius.”

Sirius nearly chokes on his own spit. “You’re having sex with other people?”

Remus sighs impatiently. “No, of course I’m not, but you’re not the reason why.”

Remus doesn’t get angry very often but Sirius definitely knows the warnings signs, and from the way his friend’s fingernails are digging into his palms it’s clear to Sirius that he should back off. But backing off has never been his strong suit.

“Then why?” he asks mulishly, feeling inexplicably aggrieved.

Remus’ eyes flare; he gazes at Sirius like he can’t believe he’d be stupid enough to ask that question. “Because I’m a werewolf,” he says coolly, with a gaze that could shrivel someone’s insides.

But Sirius’ hackles raise. “For fuck’s sake, Remus, I thought we’d cured you of all that self-loathing _dragonshit,_ you’re worth just as much as anyone—”

“It’s not self-loathing, Sirius,” Remus hisses, fury flickering across his face. “If you hadn’t noticed, werewolves are on the wrong side of this war, and if someone found out about me—”

Sirius presses doggedly on. “Well, you don’t exactly have to introduce yourself with that—”

“You want me to be seeing someone who cares about me, yeah, someone _real_? Well, if they care about me for more than three and a half weeks running they’ll notice something is up. And do you know what happens when people find out they’ve been sleeping with a werewolf? They turn them in to the Ministry, or hex them, or worse. Probably worse.”

Remus is breathing hard. So is Sirius; he feels like he’s just run a marathon. He watches as Remus turns away again, pouring out his coffee with an unsteady hand. 

“Moony, I…” Sirius says, but no more words come out.

“You know what I think?” Remus says, an unmistakable edge creeping into his voice.

Sirius stiffens: this is new. When Remus has an outburst, which is rare, he always leaves immediately, taking himself away until he can come back—sometimes days later—calmer, steadier, apologizing for his anger. He never waits around for it to escalate; he certainly never goads it further. 

“I think you’re the one who has a problem with it.” Remus turns back to face Sirius. His eyes are hard and unfamiliar. 

“What? No, I—”

“You’re the one who wants to stop.”

“Well, but because I’m worried about you—” 

“You’re uncomfortable—”

“I’m _not_ ,” Sirius protests, uncomfortably. 

“You’re the one who said you never wanted to have sex with me again.”

“I didn’t say that!” Sirius interjects, flustered, thrown off balance by this new, hard-as-glass Remus.

Remus stills. When he speaks, after a long moment, his tone has gone quiet and—and almost _predatory_ , Sirius thinks, with a strange, unsettling twist in his stomach. 

“You _didn’t_ say that?” Remus asks. 

Sirius fumbles, “Well I—I didn’t—I didn’t say I _never wanted to have sex again_ , just that we should—you, know, erm—”

“So you do want to have sex again?”

Amazingly, incredibly, Remus is advancing on him. Sirius stares, feeling the counter hard at his back.

“I…well…”

“Do you want to have sex again, Sirius?”

Remus places his hands on the counter, on either side of Sirius’ waist. His body is inches from Sirius, and _what_ , _what the actual fuck is happening right now?_ Sirius is a bug trapped on a pin, and Remus is…Remus is…

“Merlin’s balls,” Sirius croaks as Remus closes the distance between them, pressing Sirius against the tile. He’s not being playful, not a bit; in fact, his face is like stone. “Remus…”

Remus rocks against him, and sweet Helga Hufflepuff was that a _moan_ that just escaped Sirius’ lips? A breathy, high-pitched _moan_ , and what is _happening_ , it’s 8 a.m. in their kitchen, Remus is making _toast_ , this is only meant to happen when it’s the middle of the night and they’ve just got back from patching up Muggles or putting out magically-set house fires or battling with a _Death Eater_ who failed to Disapparate quickly enough from the scene of the crime, they’re meant to be frantic and desperate and—

Oh, _fuck_ , not that Remus isn’t making this fast and hard, what the _hell_ , and, fine, what the hell? Sirius shoves down his panic and surges up to bite Remus’ lips, suck his tongue down his throat, and when are they not desperate and frightened these days? Sirius’ body is in overdrive, heart pounding, pulse racing, he’s overheating like their shitty furnace in the winter—and his body is going through all the usual twists and turns, the initial cold-water shock of feeling a cock pressed up against his, the masculine smell of Remus’ shampoo temporarily short-circuiting Sirius’ sensory channels, the strangeness of his flat, wiry body—but then need takes over and Sirius gets abruptly, almost painfully hard, Remus’ fingers shoving into his trousers, Sirius rocking into them. Sirius bites at Remus’ neck, scratches his fingernails down his back; somewhere in his brain there’s a dim awareness that this is exactly the opposite of what he meant to do this morning, but oh, fuck, is it good to get out of himself for a minute.

Except then—after Remus brings him off (absurdly quickly, his hand pulling hard and almost painfully against Sirius’ dry length), and after Remus follows, rubbing against Sirius’ leg—there’s this silence, a sort of resounding silence, ringing in their ears. Remus pulls back abruptly, Sirius glimpsing a thin mottling of pink high on his pale cheeks before he turns away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice winded, strangled, before rushing out of the room.

Sirius breathes, leaning back against the counter, covering his face with a shaking hand. He feels sweaty and wet and kind of hollow; he can hear Remus hurrying around in his bedroom, wardrobe doors banging open and shut, then the splash of water in the bathroom and Remus’ bitten-off curse. Sirius feels dripping, cooling dampness running down his thigh. It makes him a little nauseous. Remus is in their sitting room now, where Sirius could turn to look at him if he wanted, but instead he just listens, eyes shut, as Remus fumbles with the jar of Floo Powder. There’s a _whoosh_ , and then Sirius is alone. 

Something _is_ wrong. Obviously something is wrong. Sirius almost feels vindicated, or would if he didn’t feel so shitty. He wonders, for a wild second, if Remus really is in love with him. _You’re such an egotistical prat_ , he can hear Moony saying, in tones of fond amusement if Sirius is lucky, which at this point he probably isn’t. Sirius growls, shaking his head. He needs a shower. Remus left his coffee and toast; they’re growing cold. Sirius grabs the toast. It feels like a rebellion.

 _Eat, sleep, sex_ , Sirius thinks petulantly. _Simple. Life would be so much easier if I really were a dog._

 

 

 

It’s not until midday that he sees it. He’s lying on the sofa in his pants, hair still drying from the shower, moodily eating Every Flavour Beans from the giant box Peter gave him for his last birthday. There are only disgusting flavors left. Sirius is eating them anyway, and grimacing after each one. A particularly putrid-looking bean, a sort of mottled puce colour, rolls under the coffee table, and Sirius flops his torso off the couch to reach for it, which is when he sees the newspaper.

He pulls back up, reading it slowly. There’s been an attack, what’s almost certainly a werewolf attack, on a couple of wizarding children. One of them is dead, the other badly bitten. The editorial in the _Prophet_ states that of the two, the dead one is luckier. In response to the attack, the Ministry is increasing the penalties for being an unregistered werewolf. Two tearful parents stare up from a hospital room; the editorialist glares out at the reader, shaking his fist.

Sirius crumples the paper in rage, breathes hard, then uncrumples it again. Yes: today’s date. This is what Remus woke up to this morning.

Well, that explains a lot.

 Sirius wants to track Remus down, Order be damned, and give him a piece of his mind for not telling him about this; short of that, he wants to storm into the _Daily Prophet_ and pluck out the horrible editorialist’s nose hairs one by one; short of that, he wants to drown himself in Firewhiskey until everything goes fuzzy and warm. He does none of those, because he is an adult now. He can control his emotions. He can be mature about this.

He goes and puts on trousers, and fixes himself a massive sandwich, and stares grimly at the fireplace, preparing himself to wait it out until Remus comes home.

 

 

 

“This is why we had sex this morning,” Sirius says, holding up the paper, as soon as the dust has settled. 

Remus stands up too fast and bangs his head on the inside of their tiny fireplace. “Shit! Sirius, what the hell?”

“This,” Sirius reiterates firmly, shaking the paper. “This is why you went all Chinese Fireball on me this morning.” 

Remus has the grace to blush. He looks a little stubborn, like he wants to protest that it’s more complicated than that, and Sirius knows that it is, but on the other hand, it’s also really not.

“Yes,” Remus admits.

Sirius sighs, dropping the newspaper on the sofa. “Shit, Remus, why didn’t you tell me?”

Remus distractedly brushes dust from his sleeves. He looks weary and rumpled and _Remus_ , nothing like the strange, angry, hard young man from that morning. “I’m sorry.”

“Remus. C’mon. _Moony_.”

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” Remus confesses. “I’m so sick of talking about it, Padfoot, it’s always more of the same, and I just…”

He lifts his bony shoulders in defeat and makes his way to the sofa, where he slumps down, on the other side from Sirius, the crumpled newspaper between them.

“It’s getting harder to be a werewolf, and—and easier to be gay,” Remus says, staring at his knees, “but only a little easier, and I just—I’m tired of worrying, of having to think about it, and you don’t—you don’t even understand how bad it is, which is infuriating in some ways, Sirius, it really is, but in other ways it—it’s because you really don’t care, about either, and, and not having to worry you’d freak out, after we, it was…a relief. But then, you know, this morning, I thought—you said we shouldn’t, and I thought you meant…because…you _were_ freaking out finally, so I wanted to shut you up, to prove to you—that you wanted it, I guess, and…I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

Sirius stares at him. In a million years he’d never have thought of it that way—that Remus might take his refusal to mean _that_.

“I don’t give a flying flobberworm about you being gay, or a werewolf,” he says. “You could be having gay werewolf sex with a hundred gay werewolves and I wouldn’t care.”

“Hey,” Remus says, with that familiar twist of his lip that means he’s too distressed or disapproving to smile, but only just. “I’m serious.”

“No, _I’m_ Sirius,” Sirius shoots back, and miracle of miracles, the old terrible joke makes a tiny laugh escape from Remus’ throat.

“I just didn’t want to hurt you,” Sirius confesses. “I felt like I was hurting you.”

Remus blinks up at him. “Why?”

“Because, you’re so…” Sirius gestures at his friend. “You’re so—you’re so tiny under those clothes, they’re too big for you, why are your clothes always too big? And you sew them up crooked, you’re not actually very good at mending things, so you look so—patchwork, I guess, like scraps, and you’ve been so—far away lately, but not like when you get lost in a book, it’s something else, and when you take off your clothes—how had I never seen you take off your clothes before?—when you take off your clothes your skin is full of scars, and I just…I didn’t want to give you any more.”

Remus’ eyes are wide, startled and then stunned and then—and then maybe a little damp. He looks away, brushing across them with the back of his hand. “Oh.”

“So, er.” Sirius clears his throat and fidgets with the sofa cushions. “Just, erm, tell me, maybe? If something isn’t good?”

Remus nods. “I can do that.” 

Sirius picks up the article and waves it a little. “Really?” 

Remus hesitates. “Yeah. Really.”

“Good.” Sirius smiles brightly and then, in one sinuous movement, transforms into Padfoot. He takes the newspaper between his big sharp teeth and proceeds to rip it to shreds.

“Good dog,” Remus says, and Padfoot can feel it: for the first time in a long time, a real, full smile.

 

 

 

Three days later Death Eaters set fire to the home of the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad.

They’re all called in, all the Order who aren’t out on missions, but it turns out there’ve been multiple attacks because some of the members are busy dealing with a disturbance in Hogsmeade and there’s some crisis amidst the professors at Hogwarts, so that leaves mostly the younger crowd to fight the fire—Sirius and James and Remus and Peter and Lily, plus Marlene McKinnon and Mad-Eye Moody, who’s bellowing orders about formations and spellcasting patterns and concerted efforts while smoke fills their eyes and the flames roar in their ears. Overhead, the Dark Mark gleams evilly, turning the whole scene a seasick green. Sirius is struggling to increase the volume of water he’s pouring from his wand while his eyes tear desperately and his throat closes up. He doubles over, coughing, and Lily hurries up to him. She flicks her wand in his direction and suddenly it’s like there’s a damp towel placed over his face.

“Thanks,” he rasps, and she nods curtly before hurrying away. Sirius sees her move to Mad-Eye and say something in his ear. After a moment, he nods, and then Lily is striding toward the flames.

“Lily!” James shouts, and only Sirius’ quick movement stops him from running after her as she disappears, wand raised, through the gaping front door of the burning house. 

“James, wait,” Sirius yells into his ear, keeping a tight grip on his arm as James struggles to break free.

“Potter, back to work!” Mad-Eye shouts. “Water on the fire, now! The faster we put it out the safer anyone inside will be.”

James looks frantic, mutinous, but he swallows hard and gives a short, jerky nod. Sirius lets go, and they both rejoin the others, turning their wands back to the blaze. A thin but steady stream shoots out of Peter’s wand; Remus, who has a stricken expression frozen on his face, is charming his water jets to move in a crisscross pattern across the house; Marlene is doing something complicated to the air overhead, conjuring a swirling black cloud. James looks like he’s dying.

There’s a loud crack and a rush of flames shoots upwards as the second story collapses. James screams but a moment later Lily bursts out the door, a large bundle in her arms. She runs about fifteen feet from the house before collapsing, coughing, onto her hands and knees. 

Marlene’s storm cloud gives a rumble and then cracks open, water gushing downwards, dampening the blaze immediately. The others keep their wands on the house but James breaks away, running over to Lily.

“Fine,” Sirius hears her wheeze, “I’m fine, James, is he—is the baby…”

Her voice dies out in a rasp. James stares at the bundle, and suddenly Sirius understands. He watches James bend over the blankets, unrolling them slowly, and place his hands inside.

The fire sputters, hisses, and dims under the rain. Marlene keeps her wand trained at the sky, but Mad-Eye gestures towards the rest of them: they’re done. The fire is dying.

Sirius turns back to James, who isn’t moving, and to Lily, who’s crawling over to her husband, panting, streaked with ash. He watches with bated breath. 

“No,” he hears Lily say: “No, no, no, no, _no_.”

Sirius’ chest goes cold. Instinctively, he looks to Remus; the other boy is transfixed, an expression of horror cutting across his mild features. 

“ _No_ ,” Lily yells, “ _no_ ,” and James pulls her roughly into him, burying her ash-covered face in his chest. Somehow, as if drawn by magnets, he and the others all walk slowly towards them through the acrid haze—towards the crying couple and the still bundle of blankets, which looks sickly and strange under the sinister shine of green light from above. James’ face is wet with tears, trailing channels through the soot. Lily is pounding her fists against his leg. Sirius doesn’t look at the bundle, but Remus does; he sees his friend shudder all over, once, from his head down to his feet.

Peter is hanging back, alone on the outskirts of the group. Marlene is squeezing the last drops out of her cloud, determinedly not looking their way. Mad-Eye strides up, lit by the glowing embers of the fire, his grizzled face shadowed by the night.

“The parents—they were already dead?” he asks, aiming his question at Lily’s shaking form.

James tightens his grip on her, glaring at Moody, but Lily pulls herself up. 

“Yes,” she says, and it’s anger, more than grief, transforming her face. “They were already dead.”

Moody nods, silent for a moment. “Well done, Ms. Potter. That was brave work.”

Lily stares at him, mute, unspeaking. Then she nods jerkily. “James,” she says, her voice sounding brittle and far away, “I want to go home now, please.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He pulls them both up slowly. A stray tear trickles down his face, but Sirius doesn’t know if it’s just from the smoke. James, upset—that used to be Sirius’ job to fix. Not anymore.

“Are we done here, Mr. Moody?” Remus asks quietly. “Is it all right if we all go?”

Moody looks as if he’d like very much to refuse—he’s big into immediate de-briefing—but Marlene comes up, her clothes drenched and sooty and her eyes exhausted, and murmurs something into Mad-Eye’s ear.

“Yeah, fine,” he says grudgingly. “Go home, all of you. Get some sleep.”

James and Lily clasp hands and Disapparate. Peter is still standing back, looking shell-shocked, but Sirius hasn’t the energy to coddle him now. He just wants to go home.

“One minute,” Remus mutters to Sirius, and goes over to the shivering young man. “You okay to Apparate, Peter?” 

Peter looks between them, with his anxious rodentlike gaze, as if he’s hoping maybe they’ll ask him back to their flat. But Sirius can’t, he just can’t, all he wants is to be free of responsibilities right now, and Peter is nothing if not a responsibility. Remus says nothing either, thank Merlin, so Peter nods shakily.

“I—I think so.”

“Go on, then,” Remus says patiently. “We’ll wait.”

Sirius is a little worried Peter will Splinch himself—that’s the last thing they need tonight—but he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and vanishes whole, with a small _pop_.

“Home?” Sirius asks Remus.

Remus nods. “Please.”

 

 

 

They Apparate into their living room more or less at the same time, in more or less the same place, stumbling over each other as they struggle to stay on their feet. Sirius starts sinking to the sofa, but Remus grabs him by the arm.

“You’ll get soot all over it!”

Sirius stares at him. Remus blinks, then rubs his hands across his face, smearing a long streak of ash across his pale cheek.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t care about the sofa.” 

Silence spirals between them, deafening after the roaring of the flames and the sound of Lily’s shouts. Sirius can still taste smoke in his mouth, deep in his lungs, thick, black, poisonous. 

“We should get cleaned up,” Remus says hoarsely. He is trembling. “But I don’t know if I can stand up long enough to shower.”

Sirius shakes his head. “And I can’t do magic for shit right now.”

“No,” Remus agrees, but then takes out his wand. He places it at Sirius’ throat and murmurs something; Sirius feels a cool, slippery sensation pass through him, clearing his lungs and throat. He takes a breath, clean and deep.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice only a little raspy now.

Remus nods. “I don’t want us to get sick from smoke inhalation.” He puts his wand to his own throat and repeats the spell. “Moody must have been more shaken than he let on. He really should have made sure we were all checked by a Healer. Especially Lily.”

His voice trembles on the last sentence and Sirius is reminded of how close Remus and Lily are. “She’ll be fine,” he says. Not that he manages to sound very reassuring. “James will make sure she’s all right.”

“I know.”

Neither of them moves for a long moment. “Erm,” Remus says, “I’m going to try and clean up.” 

“I’m going to get some water.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Remus disappears into his bedroom and Sirius heads to the kitchen. He pulls a glass from the cupboard; oh. His hands are shaking, too.

He breathes in heavily, resting his forehead against the wall as his head swims. James’ face when Lily ran into that house—Sirius takes another long breath.

Would James have looked like that if Sirius had been in Lily’s place? he wonders, and then feels immediately ill; what a horrible question, is he really feeling jealous _now_ , of all times? _She was incredible tonight_ , Sirius thinks, and it’s true, but it doesn’t erase the way his hands itch to tug at James’ hair, to wrestle him to the floor and transform into Padfoot, snuffling at his neck and licking his face until James comes out of his mute sadness and starts to fight back, cursing about dog slobber and dog breath. Instead, James and Lily are taking care of each other—probably lying in a hot bath, scrubbing the ash from each other’s skin, touching gently and carefully as if to make sure they are both still whole, still real.

Somewhere along the line he and James cracked apart, just a tiny fissure at first, leading them in different directions, further and further away; they’ve grown up differently, James pouring himself so fluidly into _husband_ and _family_ and Sirius trying to cram himself into his mouldy flat, his motorbike, his duties with the Order, like if he squeezes himself the right way he can make himself fit. 

But then the world comes along and sets fire to houses, dangles them all above the flames, and Sirius _wants_ , he wants the old James, the four of them reckless and young and immortal, racing towards danger because danger used to mean nothing worse than fifty points from Gryffindor and detention, back when Sirius could still pretend his rebellion against his family was just teenage defiance, back before it meant choosing sides in a deadly war. And now it’s all gone wrong, everything skewed funny, everything off kilter, James with Lily and Sirius with Remus and that bundle, that still bundle in Lily’s arms, James’ hands reaching down for it and stopping, stopping…

Sirius turns on the tap, splashing water over his face before sticking his glass under the stream. He gulps thirstily. Shit, his hands are still trembling. He doesn’t want a hot bath and gentle touches, he doesn’t want to sleep, he’s fucking _wired_ , his body aches and he has an angry red burn on his left arm but he can’t just _stand here_ , he can’t just—he wants to set off roaring on his motorbike, he wants to transform into Padfoot and _run_ , but he needs rest, and it isn’t safe out there, and two years ago he would have thrown caution to the winds but he can’t, not anymore, this is a war and he is an _adult._  

He turns around and Remus is there, right there. Sirius’ ears are still roaring with the flames; that must be why he didn’t hear him.

“Water?” Sirius asks. He offers Remus the glass.

“Thanks,” Remus says, a little breathlessly.

Remus is still sooty and disheveled; he clearly hasn’t done anything to clean himself up except remove his shoes. There’s ash in his hair. He smells like fire, like panic.

“Remus, can we—” 

“Yes.”

Remus gulps his water down and then grabs Sirius’ head, not gently. Their teeth knock together. Sirius opens his mouth, gasping, and despite Remus’ spell he swears he can still taste the smoke on his tongue.

Remus pulls them closer, uttering some inarticulate noise in the back of his throat, and Sirius croaks, “Bed.”

They stumble through the flat, leaving a trail of sooty smears on the walls and the furniture in their wake. Sirius half expects Remus to make a fuss about his bedcovers but he doesn’t, just pulls Sirius down on top of him and scrabbles at the hem of his shirt. 

Suddenly Sirius wants out of his clothes, all of them, they smell like ash and death, and Remus seems to feel the same; they hurry ungracefully through buttons and zips until they’re stark naked, skin pebbled with small fresh burns and, in Remus’ case, long white scars. Sirius bends down to lick at Remus’ nipple, sucking and mouthing at it like he’s learned to do with girls, and it apparently works just as well here; Remus writhes, arcing his neck back, and Sirius licks in the hollows of his collarbone, the soot-smudged skin of his jawline. Remus snakes a hand between them and grasps Sirius, bucking upwards like he’s going to rub off against Sirius’ leg like usual. But suddenly that seems absurd to Sirius, for fuck’s sake, he’s had James’ cock in his _mouth_ before, surely he can give Remus a hand job without irreparably dampening his own arousal. He takes Remus in hand and Remus cries out, panting breathily, and the lingering strangeness of the feel of him between Sirius’ fingers can’t compete with the absolute bloody turn-on that is listening to Remus make those _noises_.

Sirius mashes his mouth against Remus’, swallowing his gasps and moans, smearing streaks of ash across their cheeks. Sirius feels pleasure coiling low in his stomach, urgent and hot. He pushes down into Remus’ fingers, speeding up his own hand, bracing himself against the mattress with his free arm as his thighs tremble in their awkward half-crouch above Remus’ body.

“Sirius,” Remus gasps out, and spills hot over Sirius’ fingers. Sirius feels like he’s wound too tight and winding tighter, he can’t possible take more without snapping, _oh_ , and Remus’ fingers squeeze just _there_ , and—

“Ah,” Sirius gasps, white overtaking his vision. Remus pumps him through it, till Sirius can’t withstand anymore and he collapses to the bed, breathless, utterly spent.

“You’re lying on my arm, mate,” Remus says after a moment, still winded, but with a smile in his voice. “I can’t feel my fingers.” 

“I can’t feel my body,” Sirius mumbles into the pillow, but shifts obligingly. After a moment of silence, Remus gets up. He comes back with a warm, damp washcloth and turns Sirius slightly so he can run it between his legs and over his stomach.

“You’re still a mess,” he says matter-of-factly, “but that’ll do for now.”

Sirius nods, feeling a bit dazed. Remus pulls the blanket up over them both and curls up on his side, falling silent with a sleepy little grunt. Sirius should really get up and go to his own room, but his body is like lead now, and his mind treacly and slow…it won’t hurt anything, not this time, if he stays…

He drops off almost immediately, falling into blessed oblivion.

 

 

 

They sleep well into the morning, till Remus’ tidy little room is bathed in sunlight. Sirius thinks it looks better in the evening, when the tattered books, threadbare rug, and worn bedstead are softened by the more forgiving glow of candlelight. But the sun is welcome this morning as he blinks himself awake; it makes the night before seem like a garish dream, a dark unreality.

Remus is shifting next to him, pulling himself up against the pillows with a wince. Sirius can feel it too, the ache in his muscles and the tickle in his throat. Ugh, why is he awake?

A clear note like a bell rings out from the living room. _That’s why_ , Sirius thinks, covering his eyes; who on earth is asking to Floo themselves into their flat now, when all Sirius wants to do is sleep forever?

The possibility that another tragedy has occurred hits both Sirius and Remus at once; with a worried look at each other, they scramble out of bed, pulling on trousers as they hurry to the fireplace.

 _Lily Potter_ , reads the tiny scroll next to the glowing red light hovering above the mantel, part of the security system the Order has set up to prevent unwanted visitors from entering members’ homes. Remus quickly mutters the charm to accept the request, and the next moment Lily appears in a puff of dust.

“Remus,” she says, and hugs him hard. From the doorway, Sirius watches Remus hug her back, his skinny bare arms wrapping tight around her waist.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Lily says, pulling away a little but not letting go. “Oh, Remus, you haven’t cleaned yourself up yet.” 

“I fell asleep pretty fast,” he admits. “Are _you_ all right?”

She smiles humorlessly. “Probably about the same as you.”

“Fair enough.” 

Sirius speaks up: “How’s James?”

Lily looks over at him; the reply dies on her lips. Belatedly, Sirius sees what she is seeing: a trail of soot leading straight to Remus’ bedroom, his open door, his sooty bed, the clothes strewn on the floor; and as Remus turns too, they both notice it—a sooty handprint clear and dark on his chest.

“Again?” Lily asks, turning back to Remus. Sirius flinches internally at the disappointment in her voice.

“It’s fine, Lily,” Remus says hoarsely. “I swear, it’s fine. We’re just…” He hesitates, his eyes traveling to Sirius’ face, and Sirius tries not to look away. “We’re just doing what it takes to get through this. We all are.”

Lily is silent for a moment. Then she sighs. “Yeah, I suppose we are.”

“How’s James?” Sirius asks again, his voice sharper this time.

“He finally let me give him a sleeping draught,” Lily replies, running a hand through her limp auburn hair. “He should be out for awhile.”

Sirius nods and they both look away. He and Lily have never gotten on well. He’s never been able to help but see her as a wedge that deepened the cracks between him and James; and she’ll never forgive him for how he treated Snape at school. To her, he’s her husband’s reckless best friend, who gets James into trouble and does whatever he wants, other people’s feelings be damned.

“Do you want to stay for breakfast?” he asks her, because, what the hell, he can keep proving her right, or start proving her wrong. She looks at him, startled; so does Remus.

“I’ll make you porridge. With cinnamon, brown sugar, and just a pinch of cocoa powder,” he says, smirking a little.

Her green eyes widen. “How did you—”

“James talks about you all the time. Has since we were thirteen. Remus and I have encyclopedias’ worth of information about you. Your favorite breakfast is just the start: how about what perfume you wear, where you went for holidays as a kid, what you want to name your first three children…”

“Remus?” Lily asks, a little desperately.

“Sorry, Lily,” he says, grinning sheepishly, “though I do think Charlotte is a lovely name.”

For a second, Sirius thinks he’s miscalculated horribly, and that Lily’s about to burst into tears. But then she takes a deep, calming breath, and nods.

“Thanks, Sirius, porridge would be really nice.”

“I’ll make coffee,” Remus says, squeezing her arm. “Or tea?”

“Tea, please." 

“Nobody likes that horrible muck but you, Remus,” Sirius says.

“Your palate just isn’t refined enough, Sirius.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with my palate!”

“Boys,” Lily cuts in, rolling her eyes.

Their banter is only a thin, brittle surface, covering over the gaping wound of last night, of the last several years; but it keeps them up for now, like ice just before the snowmelt—if they tread carefully, they won’t break through, not yet, not for a little while longer.

 

 

 

Bad things keep happening, and more often. News of disappearances, deaths; they’re training in earnest, now, struggling to master magic that’s too advanced for most of them, and pulling it off through sheer determination. When they’re not training they’re patrolling Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley or the grounds of Hogwarts, or responding to the latest crisis. Remus’ morning ritual has begun to fray; he spoons his coffee haphazardly now, and drips jam on the floor as he pages through tomes of research on protection spells and magical safeguards that McGonagall has started giving him to work through at home.

The full moon hits him hard the next month. As has been his habit ever since they joined the Order, Remus insists on going to the Shrieking Shack alone, which he says is safer for everyone. He tries to slink off to his bedroom when he returns, but this time Sirius follows.

“Let me see,” he orders, standing in the doorway.

“I’m fine,” Remus replies, but his face is chalk-white and he’s doubled over; there’s a drying streak of blood on his shirt.

“Dragonshit.”

“Sirius—”

“How long have you been hiding this stuff?” Sirius demands, as he pushes Remus’ shirt up to reveal a long red gash. “Is it usually this bad?” 

Remus grits his teeth, sucking in a breath as Sirius runs his fingers along the wound. “I’m—ahh. I’m fine, seriously…”

“Shut it.” Sirius feels real, genuine anger pulse through him. “Get this off, right now, I’m not leaving you like this.” 

Remus reluctantly sheds his shirt, and then, at Sirius’ insistence, his trousers, too. He’s all over scratches and bites, plus a couple of nasty bruises on his left shoulder.

“Did you do this all to yourself?” Sirius asks, as he fishes some healing balm from Remus’ bedside drawer and rubs it gently over his skin.

“Yeah. Ahh,” Remus flinches.

“Sorry. Stay still.”

Sirius pokes his tongue through his teeth and mutters a healing spell as he taps his wand against the worst of the scratches, hoping fiercely that it’ll work—healing isn’t Sirius’ strong suit. But he can’t let the obviously exhausted Remus tend to his own wounds right now. The gash shrinks a bit, but it doesn’t close up.

“Dammit.”

“It’s okay,” Remus says quickly, “it won’t heal fully for awhile, whatever you do to it. Werewolf scratches don’t.”

Sirius remembers knowing that, dimly, from some Defense Against the Dark Arts class way back. Why had he never realized it was true for werewolves themselves, too?

“You never let us see you, after the full moon,” he says, the all-too-obvious realization coming years too late. “You always stayed in the hospital wing till the next day.” Remus says nothing. “You didn’t want us to know how bad it was! Remus!”

“It wasn’t—it was never as bad as this, at least not after the three of you started coming with me—”

But that’s the wrong thing to say. “Are you telling me that you get hurt more when we’re not there?” Fury is rising in Sirius’ throat. “And you’ve been making us let you go _alone_ for the past three years?” 

“It’s better than risking anyone else getting hurt—”

“So you’re worth less than other people, is that it?”

“Sirius, the damage I could do—” 

“But I could stop this!” Sirius bursts out. “I could stop you getting hurt, Remus, do you know how little I can do that’s guaranteed to help anyone right now? Do you know how cooped up I feel in here, do you know how useless? And I could stop this, stop you hurting— _you_ , Remus—”

He chokes back his words, grabbing the balm again, ducking behind his curtain of hair as his slides his fingers back over Remus’ skin, rubbing in the tingling cream.

“Sirius…”

Sirius keeps at it, pressing tenderly against the edge of a nasty-looking toothmark, high on Remus’ hip.

“You can come next time,” Remus says quietly from above. “But just you, and we’re not telling the others, and we’re staying in the Shrieking Shack all night.”

“Done,” Sirius says immediately.

Remus’ hand ghosts over Sirius’ head, a featherlight touch, and then settles on the blanket, curling into a loose fist. His nails are ragged and broken; Sirius wants to weep.

It’s no wonder Remus grew up so much faster than the rest of them. No wonder that out of all of them, he seems the least surprised by this war, by the horrible difficulty of slogging through each day with the threat of pain and danger hanging over his head. He’s been doing it all his life.

 

 

 

So Sirius is there for the next transformation, and the next, and the next. The months pass, and the world grows darker. Death Eaters kill Benjy Fenwick, one of the Order’s own. Caradoc Dearborn vanishes, and the Prewett brothers spend a fruitless month trying to track him down. Remus and Sirius are called out to aid in the aftermath of a London attack that kills two wizards and twenty Muggles; after scouring the minds of hundreds of onlookers, some of whom are hysterical enough to fight back—one of them gives Sirius a hard kick on the solar plexus, and another scrapes up Remus’ face—all they want to do is perform a Memory Charm on themselves. Instead they fall into bed together, as they have been doing more and more often lately.

The Department for the Care and Regulation of Magical Creatures decides to round up werewolves, vampires, and giants and remove them to remote facilities in northern Scotland ‘for their own safety’; only the difficulty and danger of catching such creatures prevents the plan being put into practice. Still, it gives them all a number of sleepless nights. Lily, who has known about Remus for a couple of years now, joins Sirius in a long, angry rant about what they’d like to do to those spineless Ministry officials; she and Sirius are rather better friends after that. Remus, despite a long meeting with Dumbledore about plans for getting him to safety if anything were to happen, lies around their flat looking miserable and ill. Sirius makes him coffee, brings him books, engages Lily in plots to cheer him up with chocolate and chess games, but nothing helps. Finally, he does the only thing left he can think of: he strips Remus of his trousers, gently, hushing Remus’ confused protests, and sucks him off long and slow, kneeling on the rug, pressing leisurely circles into his hips with his thumbs. Remus sighs, eyelashes fluttering, and when he finally comes in Sirius’ mouth he rests his hands gently in Sirius’ hair and falls asleep.

Sex doesn’t solve everything, Sirius knows that, but if it helps, right now, when the world is spiraling into pieces, he’s not going to protest, not one bit.

 

 

 

Marlene McKinnon is killed, along with her entire family. Frank and Alice Longbottom come face to face with Voldemort and barely make it out alive. Someone in the Order is passing information to the enemy, and no one knows who it is.

There’s barely a night Sirius doesn’t spend in Remus’ bed anymore.

 

 

 

One bright, cold early December morning, James sends a message to Sirius— _Meet me ASAP, please, urgent_ . _Prongs._ As Sirius is hurrying to leave, he runs into Remus, who is doing the same.

“Meeting up with Lily,” Remus explains, buttoning up his coat. “Something’s happened, I don’t know what.”

When they both return, several hours later, they can see it in each other’s faces.

“I can’t believe it,” Remus says hoarsely.

“James says they’re planning to keep it, no question.”

“I need a drink.”

Sirius couldn’t agree more. He pulls out a couple of Butterbeers and slumps down onto the sofa. Remus follows. They sip in silence for a few minutes. Remus keeps eyeing him speculatively and then looking away. 

“Are you trying to guess what James told me so we can talk about this without you betraying Lily’s confidence?” Sirius asks, raising an amused eyebrow.

Remus nods sheepishly. “Are you doing the same for James?" 

Sirius snorts. “No.”

Remus laughs. But they both sober up quickly.

“James said it was an accident.”

Remus nods.

“Idiots,” Sirius says feelingly.

There’s a silence.

“James is over the moon about it, though,” Sirius admits. “I think he’s terrified, too, but you should have seen him grinning, Remus. Just—beaming.”

“Lily’s frightened,” Remus says softly. “But she’s so stubborn. She’s decided she’s doing this, for her or for James, or as a way to fight back against the war—I don’t know. She looked so fragile, Sirius, but so strong, too, with her face set, and her hands clenched. I can’t—I can’t describe it, really.”

Sirius can’t either, but he knows: he knows, from years of watching Remus the day before the full moon, from nights of running his hands along his scarred skin.

“I wish things could be better for them,” Remus blurts out. “I wish they could be normal. Raising a child now—I’d feel like I was putting it in danger all the time, like I was a danger to it. And they. Lily and James,” he draws a great shuddering breath, “they shouldn’t have to feel that way. If I—I—” He shuts his eyes briefly, and Sirius has stopped breathing, “—I know I can’t have children. Because no matter what, I’d be a danger to them. But Lily and James shouldn’t have to go through that. They shouldn’t have to—”

“Remus,” Sirius says, because Remus is taking huge shaky breaths now, and _no_. “Remus, don’t you dare say that, don’t you _dare_ —”

“For once, Sirius, would you stop trying to pretend I can have a normal life!” Remus cries out. “I know what I’m talking about! No one knows if lycanthropy is passed on to your children because no werewolf will risk finding out, and even if it weren’t, you don’t raise your child around a man who turns into a vicious beast once a month! And werewolves can’t get jobs, Sirius, I don’t know if you noticed but I barely scrape by now, I measure out my coffee to the last fucking ground, I can’t afford a family even if there was anyone who wanted to give me one, even if two men could manage to produce a child from somewhere—” 

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, Sirius, I need you to understand, for _once_ —”

“I do,” Sirius says. He’s breathing hard. “I do. I know, Remus, I know, I—” He thrusts his Butterbeer bottle blindly onto the table and bridges the distance between him and Remus. “I know.” He presses his forehead against his friend’s and inhales deeply. “I know.” He swings one leg over, straddles Remus’ lap. “Remus." 

“Sirius,” Remus manages, “what—”

“Just shut up.”

Sirius threads his fingers through Remus’ hair. “Lily and James,” he says, “are going to be fine.”

“You don’t know—”

“They’re going to be fine. They’re going to throw a huge fucking birthday party for their kid every year, and you’re going to show up and give the kid, like, thirty books and I’m going to show up and try to set off elaborate fireworks or exploding crackers or something and accidentally almost burn the place down every single year. And the kid’ll be like, Uncle Sirius is the best uncle ever! till they’re ten but then when they go to Hogwarts they’ll realize they’re a thousand times smarter than the other first-years because of all those big fat books you forced on them, and when McGonagall’s like, How did Potter’s child get so smart? the kid’ll be like, Well, it’s all thanks to my Uncle Remus and McGonagall will roll her eyes heavenwards and say, Thank the four founders for Remus Lupin, and—Moony. Moony!”

Remus is crying. Great tears are streaming down his face and he’s trying to wipe them away, but Sirius pulls his wrists down to his sides and holds them tight.

“Moony?”

“Do you really think,” Remus chokes out, “that they’ll call me Uncle Remus?”

Sirius buries his nose in Remus’ neck, rubs his cheek against Remus’ face, brushing away the tears. “Of course they will,” he murmurs, “of course,” and he presses his lips to Remus’ damp salty skin. “Of course.”

Sirius kisses him. Remus kisses back, like he’s drowning. This rush of feeling washes over Sirius like a wave, like a wall of water hitting him in the chest, fuck, and maybe it’s for Remus or for himself or for the shards of his childhood twisting away into darkness but, “oh, fuck,” and “Remus,” and “Can we—bed—”

“Yes,” Remus writhes, gasps, “yes, please.”

They shed their clothes along the way, stumbling blindly in the narrow hallway and through Remus’ open door, falling down naked onto the faded brown bedspread.

Sirius kisses Remus long and slow and deep. They’re lying on their sides, skin against skin, running their hands along each other’s chests, waists, legs, and Sirius can’t fucking get _close enough_.

“Padfoot,” Remus whispers, “would you—erm…” 

“Yeah?” 

“Would you…” 

Sirius kisses Remus’ chest, neck, mouth. “What is it, Moony?”

Remus shuts his eyes tight and grasps Sirius’ wrists with his own thin fingers. He trails Sirius’ hands down his own torso, then back, around, until they’re resting lightly on Remus’ arse.

It takes Sirius a second to understand. Then something hits him again, another wave of feeling, passing through him in a massive shudder. “You want me to…”

“If you want,” Remus whispers, ducking his head into Sirius’ shoulder. “If you don’t mind. I could…turn around, you could pretend I’m…you know, a, a woman. I wouldn’t mind.”

For a second Sirius can’t speak. The bed is tilting weirdly, or he is. “Remus—you don’t think—” 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Remus repeats quickly, blinking up at him. “Really.”

Sirius wants to cry. Or scream. He wants to hit things, smash them up really good, pound them to a pulp, because _Remus wouldn’t mind_. Red is rising before his eyes. He squeezes them closed, tight, and breathes. 

“Remus,” he says firmly, almost managing to keep the tremor out of his voice, “I’ve never once pretended you were someone else.”

Remus frowns. “But…you don’t like…you’re not…”

“So what if I’m not?” Sirius shoots back. “I don’t get it, but I don’t care. Remus. For Merlin’s sake, please tell me you haven’t been thinking this whole time that all you’ve been is a convenient way for me to get off—”

“Well, isn’t that what this is?” Remus asks confusedly. “Aren’t we—isn’t this a, a way to cope with everything? I thought—”

“You’re—fuck, Remus—you’re—ahhh!” Sirius wants to shout in frustration. “You’re missing the point!” 

“Which is _what_?” Remus looks puzzled, _puzzled_ , not hurt, not angry, why does he think it would be okay for Sirius to just—to just—

“We’re coping _together_ , Remus, yes, this is some weird and inexplicable and probably fucked-up shit we’ve got going on but I’m still in it with _you_ , not some random warm body, Remus, _you_.” Sirius grabs him tight, kisses him hard. “ _You_.” 

“Oh.” Remus looks dazed. “I—okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, erm…okay.”

Sirius wants to shake him, but then, oh, there’s this tiny little— _smile_ —at the corners of Remus’ mouth, and, _okay_. Sirius runs his fingers down Remus’ sides again, cupping his arse and, in for a Knut, and all that, slips his finger over Remus’ arsehole.

Remus shudders.

“Yeah?” Sirius murmurs into his ear. “You still want me to?”

Remus nods. “You have to…erm…open me up first.” 

Sirius rubs his finger a little harder. “Talk me through it?”

“I’ve never—ah—never actually…”

“But I bet you know how.”

Remus blushes. “Yeah. Erm. Slick first, hang on…” He reaches for his wand and then, blushing harder, reaches behind himself with it and murmurs something under his breath. Suddenly the skin beneath Sirius’ slowly circling finger is slippery and wet. 

“Remus, you sly dog,” Sirius says delightedly.

“Shut it.” But he’s grinning into his pillow. 

“Should I, erm…”

“One finger at a time. Just slowly, like—oh.”

It’s a strange, tight sensation, not one Sirius is sure he quite likes. He feels Remus’ cock hardening against his thigh, but his own erection is flagging a little.

“Are you okay?” Remus’ voice is worried. 

“Yeah, fine, just…getting used to it,” Sirius answers, sliding his finger in and out. “A—another?”

“Yeah, if…”

Sirius pushes a second finger inside. He steels himself to look over Remus’ back, at his fingers disappearing inside his friend. His stomach jerks, almost uncomfortably; he shuts his eyes and listens to Remus’s strained, irregular breathing.

“That feels good, Sirius,” he whispers. “It—yeah. Good.”

The edge in his voice makes Sirius’ heart quicken, and, okay, yes, now he can feel it. He slides his fingers back and forth, farther in, and Remus whimpers, startled. Sirius’ cock jumps.

“One more,” Remus mutters through gritted teeth, “please,” and Sirius is happy to oblige.

“Is this…oh fuck. Is this weird for you?” Remus asks after a moment.

Sirius opens his eyes, meeting Remus’ gaze, which is heavy and lust-filled but also concerned.

“A little,” he admits. “But I—I think it’s—I think it’s good. Could we, erm,” and shit, _Sirius_ is blushing now, _why_ , “you could be on your back, right? It’s just—it’s better when I can, erm. When I can see your face.”

Remus gasps, bucking up involuntarily. “Ah. Shit. Yes, yeah, yeah we can, I—okay. You’re going to have to, erm—”

Sirius waits, pistoning his fingers in and out.

“You’re going to have to stop for a minute, Sirius.”

“Oh. Ha.”

Remus swears. “Okay. Okay. I just…” He rolls fully onto his back. “If I could, erm—my legs—”

“Oh. Wait, what—”

“Over your shoulders. Yeah, can you—is it okay—?" 

“Yeah, if—oh, yeah, I see—ha. Okay, good, yeah, wow. Yep.”

They’re both crimson now. Sirius’ again half-erect cock is pressed against Remus’ arse, awkwardly, and Sirius fights a mad urge to laugh.

“Sirius,” Remus says, still bright red, “erm. Please.”

Sirius swallows. 

“I really want this, Sirius,” Remus says, rocking a little, breathless. “I want you in me, please.”

Heat shoots through Sirius’ veins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Please. Make me—I want to—to forget everything but you—”

Sirius’ pulse is pounding now.

“Make me feel you, please, I don’t want to feel anything but you.”

Sirius gasps and pushes home. Remus cries out, half pain, but then, _oh_ , Sirius is sliding in, in, in, and—

“ _Padfoot_ ,” Remus says, sounding _wrecked_.

That’s it, that’s all it takes, Sirius is fucking _gone_ , Remus’ moans and shouts roaring in his ears, his own thundering heart, the slap of skin on skin as he thrusts harder and faster because, oh, fuck, _this_ , this is all there is, he can’t—he just wants _more_ , needs more—

“Moony, oh—”

Nothing else _exists_ , the whole world falls away, silently shattering and drifting down around them in brilliant shards of light that fade, fade to nothing, and Remus’ nails dig into Sirius’ arms, thank all that is good and bright, anchoring him, anchoring them together.

“Sirius—”

“Yes—yes yes _yes_ —”

“Can I—I’m going to—”

“Yes, yes—”

“Wait,” Remus gasps out, “wait.”

With an almighty effort, Sirius stills. His heart is galloping, his arms and legs shaking, his breath coming in wild gasps. “What—” 

“I just…want…” Remus’ face is screwed up. “I want…”

He takes himself in hand and pulls once, twice, and then he’s coming, with a great heave of breath, shooting hot across both their stomachs, his back arching and his arsehole clenching tight around Sirius— 

“Fuck,” Sirius gasps, the world going white, and he loses it, too. His breath stops, his heartbeat, everything is suspended, time, space…

“Ahhhhhhh,” he groans, and pulls out fast, making Remus wince and give a bitten-off cry. “Sorry, shit, sorry, just—ahh—too much.” Sirius falls across Remus, shoving his face into the pillow. Remus is shaking beneath him, tiny trembles that pulse through his body.

And then a strange, dreadful thing happens: the world comes back. It spools around Sirius, syrupy, thick, finding its way back into all his cracks, all his crannies, all the spaces where he and Remus are no longer touching, all the thin breaths of air between their bodies.

Sirius pushes himself off Remus and flops onto his stomach, turning his head away.

“Do you ever wonder what it’ll be like after, for them?” he asks. His voice sounds raspy and alien.

Remus doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “For Lily and James?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything is so big for them right now. Everything is a battle. Getting married. Having a child. But what happens when all this is over, and they have to just live?” With tremendous force of will, Sirius turns his face to look at Remus. “What will it be like between them, once everything isn’t life or death?”

Remus is silent. He reaches out and strokes Sirius’ hair, sliding one damp strand behind his ear. “They really do love each other.”

“Of course they do,” Sirius replies. His skin feels sticky as it cools. The sheets are twisted around his ankles. “But they can’t live that intensely forever.”

Remus runs his fingers over the curve of Sirius’ ear.

“What about us, Moony?” Sirius whispers. “What’s going to happen to us, after all this is over?”

“I don’t think about it,” Remus says. His voice is soft; so are his fingers on Sirius’ brow.

“Not at all?”

“Not at all." 

“But—how?” Sirius asks, agitated. “How? I’m supposed to be the reckless one, Remus, the one who doesn’t think about the future. You’re always planning, always cautious, you’re the realistic one, Moony, not me.”

“These days,” Remus says, and pulls Sirius very close, “not planning for the future _is_ realistic, Sirius.”

And it’s just—for the first time, Sirius understands. He understands what Remus has all along. They’re not all going to come out of this okay. Probably none of them will really be okay, ever again.

“Just be here with me, as long as we can,” Remus asks. He squeezes Sirius’ fingers and kisses them, then keeps his head down, not meeting Sirius’ eyes. “That’s what we’ve been doing all along, or trying to—isn’t it?”

Sirius tips up Remus’ chin, meets his gaze. Their eyes are both shining, with tears, with sunlight. “Yeah,” Sirius says, “yeah. I will. For as long as I can.”

“That’s all either of us can ask.” 

“I know.” Sirius tucks his chin in Remus’s neck, breathing in his familiar, sweet scent. “I know.”

 


End file.
